The Orphans
by Tori Angeli
Summary: When Leo is gone, the rest become separate, isolated, orphaned. A series of oneshots.
1. Alive

Author's Notes: I know there are a few things out there like this, including the marvelous one currently coming from Donny's Boy, but I had a couple of these written and thought I'd post them together. This first one was written as a Christmas gift for the lovely kytyngurl2.

* * *

It was becoming hard for Mike to remember a time when Raph and Leo had been part of the family.

It was strange to see Raph up and moving and making cereal, and strange that it was strange. He was standing at the counter, pouring milk into a bowl and either unaware of his surroundings or pointedly ignoring Mike. Michelangelo could hear the cereal crackle as the milk hit it, the clink as the spoon shifted under the new weight, the glug of the milk leaving the jug…sounds of a living Raph getting breakfast. It wasn't supposed to be this rare, this cherished.

The air in Mike's lungs locked itself in, but his heart might have made enough noise for it as well. This was nice, seeing Raph making cereal—moving, alive, proof of at least one brother still in existence. Leo hadn't given even that for months now. Raph rarely gave more.

For all the time he spent with just Splinter and Don, he thought he would get used to it. There were times when Raph didn't cross his mind, but he always missed him keenly. Seeing him like this made him want to speak out, to take his attention by the horns and wrest a voice from him, proving further that Raph was alive.

Raph turned, and Mike ducked out of the kitchen.


	2. Ask Me Again

"You put cream and sugar in your coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee. It's nasty."

"You're drinking it now. You know, it's kinda impossible to do what you're trying to do when you don't have a middle finger. It just looks like you're pointing up."

"Shut up."

"And then I'm like, 'What's on the ceiling, Raphie? Did Don get a pancake stuck up there while trying to perfect his Uber Pancake Flipping Skillz? Is Leo astrally projecting a super-secret message from halfway across the world to say he's having a great time at all the bars in Asia? Or is it that wad of chewing gum I jumped up and stuck up there when you said I couldn't? 'Cause I know that's still there.'"

"Mikey, you couldn'ta picked a worse--"

"And then I remember you're you, and you're tryin' a' flip me off. But that just looks funny, like I said."

"Yeah, like ya said. Buzz off."

"So were you fighting crime in the night? Standing up for the rights of the common man? Clubbing with Casey?"

"What?"

"I mean, you've never been a morning person, but coffee? Raph, Raph, Raph. I know."

"Know what?"

"It."

"What the hell do you know, Mikey?"

"Your secret."

"Mikey, if you're tellin' me--"

"You run away at nights to perform in a barbershop quartet, don't you? Second tenor? Oh come on, it was funny. Everyone knows you'd sing first bass. But don't worry, you keep drinking those testosterone shakes and you'll be down to second in no time! Your dream will be fulfilled! You'll be sought after by all the barbershop quartets in the world! Raphael: The Turtle Who Sings Second Bass, but Never Made it to Second Base."

"Gonna kill you, you little twerp."

"Don't tell me I'm wrong. Or did you and that Triceraton girl get down? Or was that a dude? How do you tell the difference? Wait, I know--"

"Mikey, if you say what I think you're about ta say, I'll put that stupid clown-head so far down your throat, it'll come out your ass!"

"Um, anyway, the barbershop quartet. Y'know, there _are_ four of us, if you count Sensei. We could be like, the Turtleshop Quartet!"

"You gotta be kiddin' me."

"Then bring in that Triceraton dude and you'd have everything you ever wanted! Music, love, and...wait, something's missing. Hey Raph, what's the one thing you want more than anything else?"

"A middle finger."

"Har dee har har."

"What about you?"

"Huh?"

"Whaddyou want more'n anythin' else?"

"I, uhhhhh...seriously, or non-seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Oh Raph, you know I've always wanted to star on a reality show about poodle-grooming."

"You wanna get outta here, right?"

"Um."

"Used ta be, you could relax around here after some crazy-ass so-called adventure. Goof off. Play video games. Bag your comics. Now ya come back every day from a job you hate, your dad's in a funk, your big bro quit carin' aboutcha an' stays outta the country, one a' your bros takes your money quicker'n you can earn it, an' there ain't no adventures anymore, just the sound a' the damned monotony of your fucking boring life. You'd give anythin' for the days when you were somethin' besides a change machine for the family budget, makin' money so you can keep up the routine of eatin', sleepin', an' workin' for the rest a' your life. Now. You wanna ask me again why I was out last night?"

"Um, no, that's okay. I think I got the idea."

"Good."


	3. The Bad Guy

Author's Notes: This one was written (finally) as a request from the marvelous Crystal, or Crycry on Deviant Art, as a thank-you for some pics she drew from Quality Time. Thank you, Cry! Betaed by the amazing Kameterra.

* * *

Leo wasn't coming back.

No one but Don would consider this. It wasn't that Don lacked faith in Leo—not at all. Accidents happen. People overlook things. People die. That was most likely what had happened. The only other alternative was that Leo had made a choice not to contact them, and that was unthinkable.

Don mourned Leo privately, sifting through his older brother's calligraphy books, the only real, personal, physical mark he had left behind besides his letters, which Don had memorized. Mourning, however, felt a great deal like _missing,_ and as illogical as he knew it to be, Don was unable to shake the feeling, or the hope, that Leo was still alive. Knowing that his mental state would deteriorate if he forced himself to believe the worst without hard evidence, he left that doubt unattended in the back of his mind, along with a grain of salt and the warning that he, like everyone else, was probably in denial.

At the forefront of his thoughts was preparation for the worst—if Leo was gone for good, someone would have to keep the family together. Someone would have to be the big brother, the second parents, the grown-up. And Don was next in line to the throne.

That wasn't the only reason Don sat at the table with scissors and a stack of newspapers. Being second-oldest didn't come with automatic responsibilities. Before, when Leo had been there, Don had preferred to be an indulgent older brother rather than a person of authority. No one had asked him to pick up the slack now that Leo was gone. Not in so many words, at least. Mike and Raph were supposed to be old enough to take responsibility. Mike was doing well enough, keeping up a job he hated with what he described as the passion of fifty gajillion supernovas all colliding in one massive ubernova, but he was so irresponsible with his wages that Don had confiscated them along with his own earnings to be sacrificed to the family budget. Raph was worse—he contributed nothing, barely saw the rest of his family, and was rude and surly when he did. Splinter was undergoing real stress that was a danger to his health, with three sons and no help. Someone had to grow up, and it was clear that Mike and Raph had no intention of doing so.

It was Don's turn to be the bad guy.

"It's my money, Don," Mike protested, eyes narrowed with indignation, irises constricting his pupils like pale blue pythons.

Don placed Mike's wages in the ninja-proof safe he had recently purchased and pressed the door closed with a soft, echoing click. "It's the family's money, Mikey. It's what we live on, not pocket money."

"In case you haven't noticed, nobody's starved since I got this job. I don't just, like, throw it away!"

Don rose to his feet and met his brother's glare with an icy stare, folding his arms impatiently. "You bought a twenty-dollar juicer from the Shopping Channel. You ordered every upgrade and expansion for World of Warcraft on the same night, along with a PlayStation 3 and an iPod Shuffle. You _do_ 'just, like, throw it away.'"

That made Mike huff. "But it's my money! You have no right--"

"When we're rich enough to afford rights," Don interrupted, "you can buy yourself the right to keep all your wages."

Mike only gave him a wounded look. Don knew it was at least half-faked. His youngest brother couldn't pull off "the look" as well as he thought he could. It was Don's own distaste for the situation that made him sigh and start toggling the dial on the safe.

"Listen, Mikey, my wages go in here, too." He opened the door and pulled out a wad of cash bound with a purple paper clip. "See?" He held the cash out to Mike, who glared at it disdainfully for a moment before glancing away self-consciously. "We don't have child labor laws here, Mike. We've got a family to feed. And your allowance isn't unreasonable. I'm giving you ten percent. I don't even keep that much for myself." He replaced the money and closed the safe. "And it's a small price to pay, really. We have what we need when we're careful. Remember how we used to live?"

The spark in Michelangelo's eyes told Don he was getting through to him. Don was grateful, even prayed for the times when he could disagree with Mike, because reasoning with Raph was impossible. Raph spoke one language only—brute force. Don's version of that was less bloody but not much more civil.

He couldn't simply cut coupons in peace now that the issue with Mike was resolved. Raph simply had to come in and start his cave man routine of pounding on the table in rage and using one-syllable words to describe how he felt. And he did. Very, very loudly.

"I'm sorry, Raph," Don said quietly, without looking up from cutting coupons. "I don't speak street moron."

Raphael repeated the stream of swear words, slamming his hands on the table harder than before, as if it would milk a reaction from the unflinching Donatello. After a few seconds of this, he snatched the scissors from Don's hands and threw them across the kitchen. "WILL YOU FUCKING LOOK AT ME?"

Don didn't want to look at Raph. He didn't want Raph to see the strain of weakness in his eyes, the traces of remorse, because if his brothers knew, they would never respect him as they had Leo. "What is the problem, Raph?" he asked coolly.

"You," Raph hissed, "owe me new tires."

"You never paid for those tires, Raphael," Don said calmly, now delicately tearing the coupons from the newspaper. "Therefore, I owe you nothing."

"It's my bike!"

"I made you that bike, Raph. Those were my tires, and it was my right to puncture them."

Raphael slammed the table again, and Don could not keep from ducking his head reflexively. Crap. Now Raph would know he could be intimidated. He knew, however, that Raph was simply a large, violent child throwing a temper tantrum, probably close to tears. "YOU HAD NO FUCKING RIGHT AND YOU KNOW IT!"

Don closed his eyes, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. _God, I hate this. I hate being the bad guy, so much, so much, why couldn't it be someone else? Leo, where are you?_ Now composed, he set the newspaper back down on the table, still refusing to look up at his brother. "Raphael. If you want new tires, you will have to buy them yourself. And you know what that means." Now Don dared to raise his eyes to Raph's smoldering ones.

His younger brother looked exactly as Don had feared—insane with anger, marked with panicked desperation and betrayal. Raph's hands curled into fists on the table. "I ain't gettin' a job, Don," he snarled, "so you can shove it up your ass."

Don plucked up the newspaper again, nonchalant. "Your choice. No job, no tires." He looked down at the newspaper and continued tearing out coupons.

There was silence from Raph's end for a moment, although Don could feel him seething. Don sprang back suddenly as he felt the table move, Raphael clutching one end and throwing it upward. Donatello barely cleared it as it flipped over, crashing down at his feet. "FUCK YOU!" Raph was screaming. "FUCK YOU!"

Donatello said nothing, only let the paper slip from his fingers and turned away to walk to the solitude of his room before it hit the floor. Once there, he shut the door quietly and leaned against it, hand pressed to it, head bowed low as tears drained from his eyes. He could remember being the sort of brother that would make Raph that motorcycle just to see the look on his face. Leo had always been the one to make him angry for his own good, and Don was used to putting that elusive smile on his face afterwards. Now he was losing that, slowly forgetting how to indulge in indulging, how to be that relaxed, confident presence instead of the substitute Leonardo. He closed his eyes, knocking down two more tears. He felt sick. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he'd rather Leo was dead, because if he had simply gone silent and allowed this to happen, it would mean he was just as messed up as Don.

_Leo, come back, damn you. God, I hate being the bad guy_.


	4. Till the Dawn

He was still sitting there, knees drawn up, arms resting casually across them, hands hanging. His unblinking eyes glinted like the ocean from the dull lights that glared hazily through the sweltering night air. Insects collected around those lights, seeking release from the unbearable humidity through suicide, perhaps. Drafts of cooler air came from the ocean whenever the wind picked up, brushing over the dock before yielding to the hot damp again as the wind died. The lone turtle huddled on the dock took no notice of the beads of sweat rolling down his face nor the curious locust crawling up his carapace. His eyes were instead set on the sea ahead, waiting in the dead of the night, vigilant and not finding.

Raphael trudged forward with a lingering sigh, half-moved and half-frustrated and attempting to hide the former. Michelangelo had been there alone for hours now, long after his father and brothers had returned home, unable to convince him to come with them. He made for a pathetic sight, staring ahead at the ocean like it would produce any minute what it had failed to give for the past five hours. Raph lowered himself beside him and brushed the locust from his shell. Mike did not acknowledge his presence. His empty, watchful eyes held no spark of life.

"Mikey," Raph said softly, "why don'tcha come home now?"

There was no response. Not even a flicker of Michelangelo's eyes.

Raphael gritted his teeth and made another brave attempt. "Mike. The sun's about ta come up. Before it even does, the place'll be crawling with guys who work here."

Silence.

All right, then. No more skirting around the issue, beating around the bush, whatever. "Mike," Raph said harshly, "he ain't comin' back."

Michelangelo's lips parted, eyes shifting slightly as though scanning the sea one last time before taking in Raph's message. "M-maybe he missed the boat. Maybe he'll come back tomorrow." His voice sounded thick with desperation and disappointment, eyes glinting and just barely rimmed with the shimmer of unshed tears.

_God, I can't...I can't do this, Mikey. Can't take the rest of your hope, even if it's good for you._ Raph's hand clasped Mike's forearm as he rose to his feet, drawing Michelangelo upward. "Maybe."

Michelangelo's babbling didn't even pause for Raph's dead encouragement. "He's probably freakin' out 'cause he knows we're all worried, and hopes we don't give up on him. What if the boat's just running late or something, and when he gets here, none of us'll be here for him?"

"He knows how ta get home."

"But he'll want us to be there. What if he thinks we gave up on him?" No matter how Raph tightened his fingers and tugged on Mike's arm, his brother's feet remained planted. "What if he thinks we're mad at him for not writing, or-or if we don't want him back?"

_Then he'd be right, that asshole._ Raph bit the bitterness back from his voice when he spoke. "That's stupid, Mikey. C'mon, you need sleep."

Michelangelo shook his head. "I wanna stay."

"Mikey..."

Anger flashed across Michelangelo's face. He snapped his arm from Raphael's grasp. "Look. If Leo comes back, I wanna be here, okay? We've been waiting six months for this, and I don't want to wait one damn second longer than I have to!"

"No," Raph snarled, hackles raising now that he was challenged, his brother's sentiments sounding far too much like the ones Raphael was too self-conscious to act upon. "You're just scared he ain't comin' back, an' can't handle it."

"How the FUCK can YOU handle it?" Mike shouted as his head snapped around to face his brother at last. Full-sized tears were now shining in his eyes and threatening to drop to the dock below, but his face was contorted with rage. "Of COURSE I can't handle it, Raph! I don't WANT to have to handle it! If Leo comes back tonight, he'll have ONE person who didn't give up on him! You can wait with me, or you can go home!" With that, he sat again on the dock, furiously scrubbing tears from his eyes, breathing deeply as if to cleanse himself from the storm of indignation, the crackle of bitterness and the flood of despair, replacing it with that terrible, destructive hope, a hurricane of denial.

What a pitiful sight.

That locust landed on Mike's shell again. In the same spot, no less. Raph reached down to brush it off again, bitterness against his oldest brother fading into forgetfulness as he watched his youngest brother. _Leo, if you come back, I'm gonna kill you. You betrayed us. You made us believe in you too much_. He sank down beside Mike, curling an arm over his shoulders and drawing him into a half-hug. Michelangelo choked and leaned into the embrace, but said nothing.

Raph didn't wait up till dawn for Leo. He waited up till dawn for Michelangelo.


	5. Nothing Has to Change

Why was Don acting like he owned the place?

Raph watched his brother count money that wasn't his, tightening his grip on the railing of the second-floor walkway as if he could break it in half. Too bad he couldn't grind the weasel into sausage with his bare hands. Or beat him repeatedly into the wall. The weasel was his brother. Sort of. What a jerk, talking to Mikey like he wasn't even standing there, eyes on the money, talking about money, like Mikey was just a money-making machine. _What the hell does he think he's doing?_

"I think I've been doing this for ages," Mikey was saying with false enthusiasm, "and I should have a raise in my allowance. Which comes from the money I earn, by the way."

Don shook his head softly. "I wish I could, Mike, but we're hurting as it is. If you could convince Raph to get a job..."

_That's right, Donnie-boy. Send in the backup to do what you know you can't do. You can't control me through Mike, either._

It had been a race for power that Raph hadn't known was going on. By the time he'd heard the starting pistol, Don had been at the finish line. The change was like turning around to find a different person behind him than before. Before he could blink, Don had been trying to organize their lives. Mikey was cooperative. Even Splinter seemed to have fallen under the influence of Don's brainwashing. No one had asked Raph if this was a good idea. This made it easy for Raph to resent them all—Don for controlling, and Mikey and Splinter for being controlled. Was everyone crazy?

Mikey's voice became hushed. "Sh, Donnie, he's probably awake."

Don didn't even look up from the money, his utterances sotto voce as he counted growing audible just before he addressed the warning. "Fifty, fifty-five, I don't care. I want him to hear it. He needs to get off his rear end and become useful. It would take a lot of pressure off both of us. I can't respect that at all. He's doing this even though he knows how hard it makes things for us."

Well, wasn't that aimed to make Raph feel like crap? He wasn't buying it. He took care of himself. He wasn't a liability. The others could do their own thing.

"Well...how hard is it making things for us, really?" Mikey asked tentatively.

Don was so startled by this that he stopped counting money. "What?"

"Dude. I bring in a huge wad of cash. You bring in more. Where is it all going? I mean, it's not like we have electric bills or rent or anything like that. We've got groceries. Comic books. Weird little gadgety things you have yet to make into a robot that cleans my room. Same stuff we had before we started working, and we got by before. Why are we hurting all of a sudden?"

"It's not all of a sudden, Mikey. We've been in trouble for months now, and if--"

"Don. I'm cool with whatever you tell me. Seriously. Where is the money all going? Forget that, where is _my_ money all going?"

Instead of answering, Donatello tightened his lips and glanced at his brother. His gaze hovered, lingered beyond that fraction of a second that would have made it meaningless. After a moment of silence, he unexpectedly hooked an arm around Mikey and pulled him into a brief half-hug, then scooped up his pile of cash and breezed into his room.

It was just like Don lately to keep quiet about something like this. Raph's blood smouldered, and he quickly returned to his room, closing the door as quietly as he could manage. He then turned and gave a ferocious kick to his punching bag. It jolted off its chain and crashed to the floor. Stupid Don, stupid Mikey, stupid, stupid Leo. Was Raph the only one who could see what was going on? Don was trying to be Leo, in some twisted way, but was worse than Leo had ever been. Well, until now. Don was only stealing from his family. Leo had dumped them all.

He couldn't recognize his family anymore, but at least he could continue to be who he had always been. Not everything had to change. Nothing had to change.


	6. The Kingdom of Don

It had been a little like two hawks swooping in for the same piece of meat, the way Raphael and Donatello had swooped in to fill the void left by their absent brother. The main thing that had resulted from the resulting clash, for Don, was an insufferable headache. Now that he was in power, Raph was gone all the time, refusing to let him exercise the power he had.

_Are you happy with your one-man show, Donatello?_

"Good morning, EasTech technology support, this is Donnie."

"Hi, um, I was wondering...if I could, um, get a few questions answered."

"No, sir, we do not answer questions here...that was a joke, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Go ahead."

"Um. Okay! Heh, in that case--"

"No, really, sir, it was just a joke."

"Oh, I get it. Do you have the number to your main office?"

"I can transfer you there, sir."

"Ah, being called sir is...weird."

"I call everyone sir, sir."

"Okay. Uh, could you call me Peanut Butter and Jelly?"

"Sure. Would you like me to transfer you?"

"Sure! Thanks!"

"No problem, Peanut Butter and Jelly."

That was how things went in the Kingdom of Don. It was like his computer chair was his throne, and he commanded and advised the world unseen from it. Of course, there was no other world for him, since no one came around. No one was around when Don felt glimmers of his old self sparking through his severe exterior, not even Mike—it would mean the most if Mike saw things like that. Of all of them, Mike treated him the most differently now that he was the substitute-Leo, avoiding him with apologetic half-grins and glazed-over expressions when Don tried to Talk Serious. These moments, when that old sense of humor lived in him again, were the only things that kept his life from becoming funereal.

"Good morning, EasTech technology support, this is Donnie."

"I have a complaint. I just tried to get my computer back from you guys at your main office, and your people wouldn't give it to me unless I had identification."

"Yes, sir, that's security protocol."

"I don't wanna hear about your security protocol, I want my computer back, dammit!"

"Sir--"

"Don't 'sir' me!"

"--if someone knew you had your computer with us, walked in, and asked us for it, would you want us to give it to them?"

"Your people should know me! I've been a customer for years!"

"We have a lot of new people, sir."

"Then you should train your new people to get to know their customers!"

"Sir, we would get busted if we--"

"I'll bust you, shithead. If I get the same attitude from your supervisor as I get from you, you can count yourself one less customer!"

"I'd be sorry to hear that, sir, but you'd be glad we have our security protocols if--"

"Gimme to your supervisor."

"Yes, sir."

There were those times when Don felt like everyone around him just wanted to make things harder for him, make this lonely routine even worse than it was, make his life into something he had never wanted it to be. That was natural paranoia, of course, but the more it went on, the more Don began to compare his brothers to his customers—lazy, moody whiners in need of someone to blame. It only made them more distant in his mind.

"Good morning, EasTech technology support, this is Donnie."

"Hello?"

"Hey, Doris. What seems to be the problem?"

"I hate to bother ya. I'm not good with the computer. I haven't owned it very long. I just wanna get the e-mail from my daughter-in-law about my son."

"Yes, ma'am, I understand."

"I forget what I click on to get to the e-mail."

"It's a little icon labeled 'Microsoft Outlook.'"

"What's a icon?"

"The little pictures on your screen, remember?"

"And I use the mouse to do that?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, okay. I hate to bother ya. I can barely see. My son gave me this computer before he went t' prison, and he made the letters real big, but I can still hardly see 'em."

"That's okay, ma'am."

"Well, I clicked on it with the mouse, but it ain't doing nothing."

"Click on it twice, very fast."

"I know I'm aggravatin' ya. My memory ain't very good. I been in the hospital for cancer, an' I live alone. My son's in prison, an' my daughter-in-law keeps me updated about him. Only she won't talk to me, she just sends out a e-mail to me an' his friends."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It's no problem on my part."

"I got no one else around to help me, Donnie."

"Then I'm glad to help."

"Oh, thank you, darlin'. It means so much to me. Will you pray for me?"

"Sure, no problem. Is the program up?"

"...Y-yes."

"Okay. Do you need any more help?"

"I don't think so. Thank you so much, Donnie."

"No problem, ma'am. Have a nice day."

"I love you."

"I-I love you, too."

Don hung up, shocked and sobered. After a few moments of empty silence, he glanced over at his screen. He'd missed quite a number of calls while waiting on the old woman, but somehow didn't care. How many times had she called, how many times had he heard that story like she just needed someone to tell it to, without ever hearing those three desperate words, spoken to someone she'd never even seen? He ignored the beeping phone and buried his face in his arms on the desk. In his little one-man kingdom, he hadn't thought he'd ever meet someone lonelier than he was.


	7. Fly Away

Michelangelo had always wanted to fly. Not in an alien hovercraft, just fly, himself and the air, weightless. Perhaps this had spawned his fascination with superheroes like the Silver Sentry, but he knew it was why running over the rooftops brought him so much exhilaration, leaping over open air from building to building. He'd heard somewhere that when one realizes that they are dreaming, they can control the dream. So every time he dreamed and realized he was dreaming, he put every effort into flying. It was harder than it seemed, and he had only managed it once, ungluing his feet from the fake dream-gravity and soaring through the air, doing flips, rolls, dips, and dives. He'd had the feeling that if he touched the ground, the enchantment would end, and he would be bound to the earth forever.

Don's voice was shouting indistinctly at him over the radio. Mikey ignored it. He was supposed to have been home hours ago. Now, the sun was setting, and he was nowhere near home, but well outside the city, watching people fly. He'd driven off on an impulse, every pore of him fighting the idea of going back home to the same thing he always came home to. He hadn't known about the people on hang-gliders, weaving their way peacefully through the sky, shuttles moving back and forth through patches of color.

He'd always wanted to try hang-gliding. Leo had taken the only similar contraption they had, and Don hadn't made any more since. It seemed to Michelangelo that this was the closest he would ever be able to come to real flying. If he could do just that before he died, he would consider his life complete. Maybe it was the last thing he had left to look forward to.

Maybe he could take one of those sets of wings and fly away, coasting over America to Florida, or California, or Hawaii. He could fly over the Atlantic and see Amsterdam and Dublin and Berlin. He could find Leo. He could bring Leo back, and that would make everything peachy again, normal again, exciting and fun again. Or maybe he couldn't. Maybe Leo didn't want to come back.

Maybe those wings could carry him somewhere else. He could coast through the free air, then cut himself loose from his harness and fly on his own for just a few seconds before...but he didn't want any pain. He could get drunk or high first. That would make him less nervous, relax his inhibitions, dull the pain of the impact. He could go out flying.

Michelangelo watched the hang-gliders, in his mind the ultimate expressions of ultimate freedom, with a small smile.

Don's voice had been quiet for some time, and now Mikey heard a motorcycle approaching, growling like a tiger as it came to a stop beside where the van was parked. He didn't have to look to know who swung off the bike and jogged toward him. Two sets of footsteps interrupted his flight of fancy, and the driver's side door was jerked open.

"You are in deep shit, Bueller," growled Raph's voice. "Move over."

Mike moved over without comment, and Raph stepped aside to let Don hoist himself into the driver's seat. Both were wearing their classic trench coat and fedora combination. Don was already going on a tirade that Mike wasn't listening to while fumbling for the keys, and Raph closed the door from the outside. Seconds later, the sound of the motorcycle pulling away from the shoulder could be heard. Michelangelo stared out the window at the hang-gliders, touched by longing—not to die, not even to run away, just to change, to take back his own life, to accomplish, to have something for himself, to break free of this constant routine in any way possible, to be totally and completely and irrevocably free.

Don suddenly broke off in mid-sentence. "What are you grinning about?"

Mikey's grin stretched. "Nothing."


End file.
